Down Memory Lane

I promised the tale of the second time I was knocked out cold.

The summer after my high school freshman year my folks bought me a three-speed bike to replace my old Huffy. In our neighborhood the streets were pretty clear of traffic, and all the kids rode in the streets, instead of on the sidewalks. I was peddling down the street with the Bush twins (Suzanne and Sharon, not Jenna and Barbara) on a clear, sunny day. Out of nowhere, a car came whizzing down the street and nearly sideswiped us. Being unused to hand brakes, I panicked and grabbed the front brake (left hand) before grabbing the rear brake (right hand). I was catapulted over the handlebars and landed smack in the middle of my forehead (so I am told).

The last thing I remembered was seeing that car whipping by. I have a vague memory of being on my back on the tree lawn, trying to focus on the sky and not being able to do so. The next clear memory is of waking up on the couch in my family room and asking, "What happened to me?"

My mother shouted, "You fell of your bicycle, you idiot! And if you ask me that one more time, I'm going to knock you out myself!" Then she stomped off to get her purse and keys to take me to the emergency room.

[Okay. Here's a question -- why in the world did she wait until I woke up to take me to the emergency room? For that matter, I can't believe anyone moved me in the first place. I'm damned lucky that I didn't break my neck. Anyway, that's the way my mother's mind works. She's always in a huff when one of her chicks is damaged. Some people panic. Some people flutter helplessly. My mom just gets pissed at the world, grabs her car keys and yells at the damaged chick in transit to the hospital.]

Yes, I had a mild concussion. Again, I was very lucky I have a thick skull.

In addition, I had a matching set of very, very colorful shiners.

Fortunately, school was not in session, and I didn't have to see anybody but my pals from the neighborhood, I thought. But, OOPS! I forgot. I also was heading off that weekend to an event that I had been counting on to meet boys. Lots and lots of boys. Eek!

What kind of event? Well, I have to digress for a moment here. I had grown up as a Brownie and a Junior Girl Scout. Cindy Hampton's mom had been our Scout leader for years. When it came time to move up to Cadets (now Studio 2B), Mrs. Hampton decided that she would rather lead a Mariner's group (now defunct; a girlie counterpart to Sea Scouts), instead. Of course, my mom signed me up. This was all well and good, but we lived in the far west suburbs of Chicago, and the biggest body of water available was the local ice skating pond. And we didn't meet anywhere near there, but at a park in Wheaton, IL that had no water save for a drinking fountain. Are you getting the picture here?

Mrs. Hampton decided that we would participate in a bay jammer in Indiana. Participate, meaning compete. Right. About the only events we could enter were knot tying and orienteering, because none of us had any boating experience whatsoever. I had gotten brave and decided to enter an event called "gunnel pumping," because I'd at least paddled a canoe a time or two. What's gunnel pumping, you ask? Gunnel pumping is standing on the gunnels -- or the lip -- in the stern of a canoe and moving the canoe by pumping up and down with your legs only. (In retrospect, what in the hell was I thinking?)

My fellow Mariners and I were feeling pretty stupid about the whole thing when Mrs. Hampton mentioned that there were also going to be Sea Scouts competing.

Hoo, boy! Camping and boys and no parents allowed! Whoohoo! Knot tying? Piece of cake. Gunnel pumping? Just watch me. I was primed and ready, and so were the rest of my merry band of Mariners.

And then I ended up with those two ferocious black eyes. No amount of makeup would cover them. Even big sunglasses couldn't completely hide them. They were humongous. Oh. My. God. There would be boys and they would see them. This was so not going to happen to me.

I pleaded with my mom to stay home that weekend, but she was adamant. I was going. Or. Else.

"Or else" is never good with my mom. Anything is preferable to "or else." Even having to join a Alaskan naked kazoo marching band would be preferable to my mother's "or else." But I have to tell you, this came pretty close.

So off I went to a teenaged girl's biggest nightmare: competitions in things at which I had not one ounce of skill and a couple of shiners you could spot from a city block away. I was doomed to be a wall flower all weekend. I just knew it.

It's funny how things turned out, though. I ended up the envy of every Mariner at the bay jammer, because all the boys wanted to know who had given me the shiners and could they take care of him for me, please? I've never been that popular before or since.

So that's all it takes to get guys to pay attention to you, ladies. Knock yourselves out.
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